Catastrophe Queen Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TWO – MALLORY

  CHAPTER THREE – MALLORY

  CHAPTER FOUR – CAMERON

  CHAPTER FIVE – MALLORY

  CHAPTER SIX – MALLORY

  CHAPTER SEVEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER EIGHT – CAMERON

  CHAPTER NINE – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER ELEVEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TWELVE – CAMERON

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN – CAMERON

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER NINETEEN – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TWENTY – CAMERON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – MALLORY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – MALLORY

  EPILOGUE – CAMERON

  THE END

  THE ROOMMATE AGREEMENT

  ABOUT EMMA HART

  BOOKS BY EMMA HART

  CATASTROPHE QUEEN

  E M M A H A R T

  Copyright © by Emma Hart 2018

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design and Formatting by Emma Hart

  CHAPTER ONE – MALLORY

  There were three things I needed to be written on a t-shirt for every stranger who passed me in the street.

  Red was my nail color.

  Dry shampoo was the greatest invention since humans evolved.

  I was, without a doubt, the biggest walking disaster since… well, humans evolved.

  Of course there were a lot of other things I could say to describe myself. I could eat an abnormal number of tacos in one sitting. I had the gravitational center of a bouncy ball. My tolerance for alcohol was world-record worthy, and if I ever wanted to regain any of the dignity I’d lost thanks to a cracked sidewalk right before senior prom, I’d never wear a heel higher than three inches again.

  Even three inches was pushing it.

  I much preferred zero.

  In fact, I preferred not to wear shoes at all. If I was wearing shoes, there was a better-than-average chance I was leaving the house.

  If I was leaving the house, I was socializing.

  And let me get this straight right now: I was not a socializer.

  You could keep your fancy-schmancy parties and your loud-ass bars and clubs.

  I wanted my bunny slippers and my pajama shorts with penguins on.

  Yes, I was a closet eighty-year-old, and no, I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about that.

  In my not-so-humble and far-too-frequently-expressed opinion, I was a twenty-five-year-old grandma without the burden of grandchildren, and I was totally okay with that.

  I mean, I could barely keep myself alive, so there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be able to keep two generations of my offspring living and breathing without some kind of divine intervention.

  Don’t believe me?

  I was living with my parents. And we weren’t talking just left college, drowning in student debt, can’t live on my own kind of living with my parents.

  No, it was three years post flying the nest, lived on my own like a boss living with my parents.

  And why was I back at home?

  Well, that was a fun story.

  See, my apartment building had a fire. The origin of it was currently unknown, and while I’d swear that I wasn’t responsible, there may or may not have been a chance that I’d forgotten to turn off my flat iron that morning.

  Again, I may have turned it off.

  Maybe not.

  Regardless, my first-floor apartment had been so badly burned that I’d had no choice but to move back in with my parents.

  It wasn’t so bad. Not really. They charged me minimal rent so I could save as much as possible to get back on my feet because I’d also been let go from my job, and I didn’t have the restrictions teenage-me had.

  What did I have?

  Well, images of my parents doing things no child should ever witness burned into my retinas.

  And we weren’t talking walking around in underwear or anything like that. No, we were talking about sex toys on the coffee table, a suspender belt over the back of a dining chair, and actual sex on the sofa.

  I wished that were the whole story, but there was, like, ninety percent of that iceberg under the surface, full of memories that I didn’t want to pull back up, thank you very much, Satan.

  Long story short, there was now an alarm on Alexa in every room of the house so they’d know I was ten minutes from home.

  Yet, I was still dawdling and walking in the direction of Starbucks instead of my house. I’d just left the only interview I hadn’t managed to screw up in the last two weeks, but I still wasn’t feeling too hot about my chances.

  Probably because I had a pair of dirty underwear in the leg of my pants that I’d discreetly managed to tuck into my sock mid-interview under the guise of an itchy ankle.

  That, and I wasn’t exactly the most organized person in the world. It wasn’t a great situation to be in when you were applying to be a personal assistant, but I figured I could do it, even if it was for the boss of a real estate company.

  I hadn’t even met the guy. I knew nothing about him except for the fact his name was Cameron Reid, and he ran his family’s real estate company. His current full-time personal assistant had decided not to come back from maternity leave, and he didn’t like her temporary replacement, so she’d been called in to do interviews.

  Meeting Casey Owens probably should have been my first clue that, no matter how well the interview went, I wasn’t a fit at Reid Real Estate. She was tall, slim, and she didn’t have a hair out of place.

  I was… relatively tall, packed a few extra pounds on my ass, and discovered I’d forgotten the curl the back of my hair five minutes before she called me in.

  It reminded me of the time Andie went for her interview in that devil-slash-Prada movie. Or Ugly Betty. All those tall, beautiful, perfect people, and then, there’s you.

  Or me, in this case.

  With my half-uncurled hair and a dirty pair of panties with flamingos on them still tucked into my sock, even as I placed my order at the counter in Starbucks.

  It really wasn’t any wonder that I was single.

  Although, part of that was not my fault, but my ex would tell you differently. I took no responsibility for his issues when it came to getting his soldier to stand to attention. Those were all on him, no matter how many times he tried to claim otherwise.

  For all I knew, he’d caught something from one of the women he’d been sleeping with behind my back.

  Again: that was also not my fault.

  The dirty undies in my sock? My fault. Lying cheat of an ex with a problem getting his cock hard? Not my fault.

  Not initially setting the alarm on the Alexa for every day?

  Totally my fault.

  I took my coffee from the counter and scanned the room for an empty table. There wasn’t one, which killed my chances of wasting more time before I went home.

  With a sigh, I checked my phone for the time and headed for the door. I was going to end up at home earlier than I’d planned, and I needed to check with my mom
to make sure there wasn’t anything kinky happening somewhere in the house.

  I’d considered bleaching my eyes enough in the last few weeks, thank you.

  I was reasonably sure I was safe because my grandfather and great aunt were coming to stay to celebrate Grandpa’s eightieth birthday. It was still a miracle my exhibitionist mother shared DNA with either of them. They were ornery and grumpy and fought every ten minutes, but they didn’t flash their flesh in the hopes of getting out of a speeding ticket. I wouldn’t put it past Aunt Grace, though, on second thought.

  Really, it was no wonder I was a walking disaster.

  I pulled up my messages and clicked on my mom’s name. My thumb was poised to type the burning question of whether or not it was safe to come home when I glanced up.

  And saw the car screeching to a stop, mere inches from me.

  I screamed and stepped back. My heel caught on the curb, sending me toppling backward, and both my coffee and phone went flying. My cup slammed against the sidewalk, splattering hot liquid everywhere right as I managed to save my phone from certain death by concrete.

  My heart was beating so fast it should have exploded, and adrenaline raced through my veins. I gripped my phone against me so tightly that the edges pressed painfully into my skin.

  Oh my God.

  I’d just almost died.

  Maybe slightly dramatic, but I probably wasn’t far wrong. I didn’t even know I’d stepped into the road. When had that happened? Had I really been in that deep into my own little world that I hadn’t even checked for traffic?

  Dear God.

  How was I still alive?

  The back door to the sleek, black car that somehow hadn’t run me over swung open. From my vantage position on the sidewalk, the first thing I saw was a pair of shiny, black shoes attached to legs wearing perfectly-pressed, light gray dress pants.

  I dragged my gaze up from the feet, over the door of the perfectly clean car, and stared at the most handsome man known to humankind.

  Thick, dark, wavy hair covered his head, curling over his ears. Lashes the same dark shade of brown framed impossibly bright-blue eyes that regarded me with a mixture of shock and concern, and my ovaries about exploded when he rubbed a large hand over full pink lips and a stubbled, strong jaw.

  “Miss—I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Scrambling to my feet as he approached me, I tugged down the leg of my pants and grabbed my purse. “Yes. I mean—it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

  He let go of the car door, showing broad shoulders and just how well that gray suit was tailored to him and picked up my coffee cup. “All the same, I think we can share the blame. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  Just my dignity, and by this point, I was running low on it anyway.

  I shifted, taking a step back. “I’m fine, really. Thank you.”

  “Can I replace your coffee? Give you a ride anyway to apologize?” His expression was so earnest, his concern so genuine that I almost gave in.

  Almost.

  I had almost walked into the front of his car, then proceeded to embarrass myself in front of everyone on the street.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m not far from home.” I clutched my phone and purse straps a little harder. “Again, thank you, but I should be going.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “Uh, miss? Did you drop something there?”

  My eyes followed the direction Mr. Dreamboat was pointing. On the side of the road, tucked against the curb, was a pair of white, cotton panties with flamingos on them.

  My white, cotton panties with flamingos on them.

  Swallowing, I met his bright eyes and shook my head. Dear God, please don’t let me blush. “No. I’ve never seen them before.” I backed up a little more. “Thank you for not running me over.”

  Mr. Dreamboat grinned, his eyes brightening with his smile. “I’d never be able to forgive myself if I’d been responsible for running over someone as beautiful as you.” He glanced toward my panties, then winked at me.

  There was no doubting that I was blushing this time around.

  You could fry eggs on my cheeks.

  So I did the only thing any self-respecting, twenty-five-year-old woman who’d just almost been run over, tripped, and dropped her dirty panties could do.

  I ran.

  But only like two blocks, because I was in heels, and I had the fitness levels of a hippo.

  Then I grabbed a cab.

  I was probably safer inside the car.

  ***

  Tentatively, I pushed open the front door to the house I’d grown up in. I could barely see through the gap into the hall, but I didn’t want to look. I wanted to listen.

  No creaking. No gasping. No moaning. Only the snuffling and yipping of my mom’s Pomeranian, Poochie, as she assaulted a stuffed bear with the danger of a falling leaf.

  Thank God the stupid animal was usually asleep in Mom’s room. I don’t know if I could deal with her running around everywhere all the time. Then again, it wasn’t my house, so whatever.

  “That’s not a dog,” came a familiar, old voice. “That’s a cotton ball with a squeaker stuffed inside it.”

  Then my mom’s sigh. “Aunt Grace, Poochie is a Pomeranian. She’s supposed to be fluffy.”

  “Poochie is a stupid name for a dog,” my great aunt replied. “You know what a poochie is, Helen? It’s that pudge you get when you eat too many pies. Not a dog’s name, unless you’re comparing your dog to your excess stomach fat.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you here, too,” Mom replied dryly.

  Well, if Grace was there already insulting my mom, there wasn’t a chance I’d stumble onto a weird sex game today.

  I pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the hall.

  Relief washed across my mom’s face, brightening her light-brown eyes. “Mallory! You’re back early!”

  “No tables at Starbucks,” I muttered. “Hello, Aunt Grace. You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

  Aunt Grace narrowed her eyes at me, the ornery old git. “Why are you dirty?”

  “Fell over,” I replied, dumping my purse at my feet and shrugging out of my blazer to hang it up. “Why does your dress look like a kindergarten class threw up their paints on it?”

  “Because I stopped giving a shit about what other people thought of me fifty years ago.” She gave me a toothy grin, her eyes sparkling. “Did you know you have a giant rip on your ass?”

  Wait—what?

  I clapped my hands on my butt cheeks and, sure as hell, there was a tear on my right ass cheek. Not ‘giant’ as she’d claimed, but big enough that anyone looking could see I was wearing not-very-big-panties.

  What? These pants hugged my ass, and nobody liked panty lines.

  At least, these pants did. All they’d be hugging now was the inside of a trash can.

  “Shit.” I smoothed my hands. “And I liked these pants.”

  “Bet my dress looks pretty good now, huh?” Aunt Grace’s eyes lit up.

  Poochie eyed her for a second before she returned to her soft toy.

  “Where’s Grandpa? Did you fly in together?” I untucked the plain white tee I’d worn under the blazer and tugged it down over my ass to cover the rip for now.

  “At the liquor store,” Mom said with an edge to her voice, turning to go to the kitchen. “The first thing he did when he got here was check the liquor cabinet to see if we had, to quote him, “the good stuff.””

  Aunt Grace leaned in. “Jack Daniels. His best buddy.”

  “But we have Jack,” I replied, following my elderly aunt to the kitchen. “You bought some last week.”

  “Yes,” Mom replied, turning off the coffee machine. “I bought that for me. Do you think I can get through the next week sober? Between Aunt Grace criticizing everything from my highlights to my dog and Dad asking when you’re going to get your life together, I need something for my nerves.”

  And sex on the di
ning table wasn’t going to be possible. How very woe-is-me of her.

  “My life is totally together,” I retorted. “All right, so I live here, and I’m trying to get a job, but it could be worse.”

  Aunt Grace slid onto a stool at the island, wincing as she got comfortable. “Yeah, Mallory. You could have a rip on your ass.”

  I blinked at my great aunt, taking in her rose-gold-streaked, gray hair that was curled and coiffed to perfection around her wrinkled, powdered face. Her eyes were identical to my mom’s, a light golden-brown color that sometimes glinted amber if the light caught them right.

  Her thin lips were caked in bright pink lipstick that smudged at the corners of her mouth, and those corners were currently tugged up in a self-satisfied smile.

  I crossed to the cabinet where my mom kept the hard liquor and reached inside for the red-capped bottle of Smirnoff vodka and pulled it out. Standing, I tucked the bottle into the crook of my elbow and looked at my relatives.

  Mom smirked. “What are you doing with that?”

  I looked her in the eye and said, “Doing the same thing you did with your buddy Jack. Hiding it to get me through the week.”

  Her laughter mingled with my great aunt’s as I stomped to the stairs, still cradling the bottle. I made a tiny detour to grab my purse and made my way upstairs to the only sacred space I had left: my bedroom.

  It was the only place in the house that I could confirm my parents hadn’t had sex in, and that was because I’d put a lock on the door when I was eighteen, and I had the only key.

  In hindsight, eighteen-year-old me was way smarter than me now.

  Then again, me now was hiding a liter bottle of vodka in my bedroom, so who was really winning here?

  I kicked the door shut behind me and set the bottle on top of my dresser. There was no doubt in my mind I’d need that vodka by the time the night was through, and that didn’t even count this afternoon’s antics by me.

  I pulled my tee over my head and undid the button on my pants. I was sad about them. They made my ass look at least ten percent peachier and perkier than it actually was, and that was something I could get on board with.

  In fact, I believed that all pants should have that perk.